hey man [now you're really living]

so, wednesday i decide to give the local bike night another go, ok, ok, i'm a shallow toss-pot, especially after my rant about jacking in the blog i decide to be 'mr. nice' to approach things with a less jaundiced eye, yep, the new timmy loveless that's me, reasonable, kind, understanding, pleasant, my attitude has disappeared almost overnight, everyone has an opinion, everyone has the right to ride whatever they want, wherever they want without some sarky comment from yours truly. see, it's working, me [on the 'inckley and 'the lord of swarf' or dangerous, on the 'yella peril' ducati], tip up at 1900hrs, the place is rammed already, the two overflow carparks are already full and we do a cheeky squirt past the bloke on traffic duty trying to get us into carpark three, flashing a smile and a cheery wave, [see timmy, you can be nice, usually you would have given him the english archers and shouted 'get a big black dog up 'ya'- sidenote, from a great aussie based cartoon that used to appear in 'superbike' magazine back in the early eighties] we park up outside the pub and get a coke in, dangerous wanders off with chalky and i sit on the kerb opposite the hostelry watching the constant flow of motorcycles in the milky sunshine, a gathering of the tribes that make up this life that we choose to follow, the sportsbike riders, doing the 'monkey' the half stooped, knee bent, shoulder-hunched lurch that you have to adopt when wearing a set of race leathers, the cut-off, rally patched wearing harley warriors, the scooter kids in van's, board shorts, mx helmets and hoodies, the old geezers, on restored bantams wearing original wax cotton that a shoreditch urbanite would sell a kidney to own, urban camouflage cordura suited bmw r1200 gs. riders, gixxer boys in white simpson bandits, black as night visors, m1a jackets and ox-blood polished doc's, trike riders, a hundred light-up skulls, reliant robin engines, bench seat with four kid's all wearing the same petrol station two-quid shades as mum and dad, [and the same scowl], the classic boy's, gold-stars, triumphs, velo's, they park in the same place every week, their spot marked by an oily witness, like a dog marking his territory, i'm sitting there on that piece of raised curb, just drinking it all in, the sounds, the smells, the people, then, my ears prick up like a jack russell hearing the cheese box come out of the fridge, thats a couple of sorted two-strokes that is, from a hundred yards i can tell these two machines are very special, i feign nonchalance as i wander across to get a better pike at the two machines in question, bloodyfuckinghell! game over, [expand the shite phone camera pics and have a look for yourself, absolute genius, i'm not going to insult you by pointing out what's been done to these two bikes] so, i spunk an hour just drinking in the workmanship, in the end i have to break away and have a look around the carpark at the other bikes, i'm talking to people, communicating and keeping the inner-demon under control, it's great, i bump into dangerous, chalky and sweary and start to tell them about the elsie's, but, i make the mistake of tuning into another conversation of some by-standers, some bloke, [i'd hazard a guess at early forties] is regailing a crowd of associates with how much he's spent on titanium fasteners, 'ya, ya, i phoned up pro-bolt and just ordered the whole shebang, got a GREAT deal, only cost me three-kay, absolute revelation, the bike is just the bike it should be now, soooo responsive now i've lost all that weight!' now, this superstar is your typical, 'direct access' rich twat, he must weigh close to 18-19 stone and he's rocking five-eight, yep, he looks like one of those old watney's part-seven's, in other word's a lardy-arsed barrel, dangerous clocks my face first, 'behave bailey' too late, another potential friendship ruined forever......................